In Darcy's Dreams

by Gwendolyn Dash

Nothing would be right. Nothing could be right, ever again. Elizabeth turned away from her sister and buried her face in the pillow, waiting for tears or sleep to come.

  But neither did.

  “I must see him,” Darcy said.

  Bingley shook his head. “That is an extraordinarily bad idea, old chap. You must know that.”

  Darcy did. Yes, he bloody well did, and for that, they were likely both damned. It had been hours since there’d been any news at all from Colonel Forster, and as the minutes ticked by, it was not only Bingley who grew nervous. They’d sent word to London of course, for a proper representative of Darcy’s interests. But in the meantime, he had engaged the services of a local lawyer, Mr. Philips, who, as far as Darcy could tell, primarily nodded gravely and agreed with everything Bingley was saying.

  Mostly, it amounted to leaving Hertfordshire as soon as ever he could.

  “There will be inquiries, sir,” Mr. Philips said. “I am certain there shall be inquiries, no matter what happens. And though of course you are—blameless—” The man seemed to color at the hesitation in his voice. “Though of course you are quite blameless for this dreadful accident, it would not be in your interest to remain here.”

  “I did not know he was armed,” Darcy said, inanely. How could he have? Yes, the man was a soldier, but who went around to country balls with loaded weapons upon their person? This was not a dangerous London alley. Foolish, headstrong Wickham!

  Both of them fools, scuffling about like they were still boys at Pemberley, fighting over sweets or games of cricket.

  For years, Darcy had managed, somehow, to keep his temper around that man. He’d been calm and collected when Wickham had sought to manipulate him after his father’s death. Darcy had kept his head when Wickham had returned, having squandered his legacy, and asked for more. He’d even, somehow, managed not to strangle the wastrel when Wickham had attempted to seduce Georgiana last summer.

  And then, tonight—tonight!—his carefully maintained facade of gentlemanlike behavior had all come crashing down. How had it happened? All he’d meant to do was ensure that Elizabeth Bennet did not find herself in the same sad situation as so many girls Wickham had misled over the years. How many nameless girls had been meddled with at Oxford? How many farmer’s daughters or shopgirls or housemaids?

  He’d almost had Georgiana, too. Almost Elizabeth…

  “Of course not, sir,” said Mr. Philips. “And I am certain that any inquiry which arises will surely reach the same conclusion. But, you must ask yourself if it is, perhaps, beneath your dignity to even submit to such a line of questioning.”

  “Yes,” said Bingley. “These country constables might think nothing of dragging a gentleman’s name through the mud. This is not Derbyshire, Darcy. They would not do you the honor you deserve.”

  What honor did he deserve, though? He had set upon Wickham like some sort of ruffian. The gunshot wound had not been his doing, but the punches certainly were. The gun would not have gone off had they had not been tussling in the grass like a pair of lowly pugilists.

  “I will do everything in my power to prevent such an interview,” Mr. Philips said. “Were the mayor still Sir William Lucas, I am certain it might be prevented altogether.”

  “That is not a risk you ought to take,” Bingley said. “Really, Darcy, you must see reason. The only option is to leave here at once. I shall go with you. We will return to London and wait for all of this to blow over.”

  All of this. What a strange way to think of the life of George Wickham. Darcy was struck, suddenly, with a memory of Wickham and himself, barely eight years old, collecting worms from the banks of the stream that flowed right by the front entrance of Pemberley. How had it all come to this?

  “If nothing else, Darcy,” Bingley urged, “You must consider this. Should Wickham die from his injuries, he has many friends in the regiment who would consider it an insult. You may not be safe here.”

  “Indeed, sir, that is also a danger,” Mr. Philips agreed, nodding. Nodding again.

  Should Wickham die from his injuries, Darcy would never see him again. He had hated him for so long, and ever since this past summer had wished for nothing more than to never lay eyes on the man again.

  But he hadn’t wished him dead. Just alive elsewhere in the world, where he might never cause any of the Darcy family pain, ever again.

  And thus it might have remained, had Darcy not sought to involve himself in the fate of one silly country girl.

  A servant appeared at the door to Bingley’s study. “Sir, there is a messenger here from Colonel Forster.”

  Chapter 6

  The dawn broke, but Elizabeth had found no repose. Silently, she slipped from her bed, found a wrap and headed downstairs. Not even the scullery maid was up to stoke the fire, she noted, as she stole through the house and out into the garden.

  The grass was frosted with morning dew. The chickens clucked about in the yard.

  And before her, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham were locked in combat.

  It is entirely thanks to me that your corpse doesn’t lay at the base of the cliffs in Ramsgate.

  Indeed, I hoped for better from you, once upon a time.

  Every syllable of that dreadful conversation seemed seared upon her brain. She’d replayed it a thousand times in the wee hours of the morning, when everything was at its most hideous.

  The summation was clear. She hated to consider it, but though she had certainly acted the part of a fool, Elizabeth had not taken complete leave of her senses.

  I know the measure of you now, and I should not like to see another young lady taken in.

  All I was after was a bit of fun.

  Mr. Wickham was not an honorable man. He was not. Handsome and charming and all things amiable, but not honorable. She could see that now. All his pretty words to her had added up to one thing only: he’d sought to remove her from all good company at the ball last night. And no one had realized it more than…Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Darcy, who had tried to warn her, beneath the yew, of Mr. Wickham’s perfidy. She’d dismissed him then, but now she saw how he’d been trying to protect her. He’d been trying even when he followed them out into the garden at Netherfield.

  Everything that had resulted then was her fault.

  She knew not how long she sat there, on the steps leading down into the garden, but eventually the morning chill seeped through her wrap and she went inside to dress.

  Jane was up now, bleary-eyed but cheerful. “Good morning, Lizzy,” she said, as the maid dressed her hair. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Yes,” she lied. No. There would be no better for her.

  She could have prevented this. All of it. Had she not encouraged Mr. Wickham to attend the ball. Had she not gone with him onto the balcony.

  Had she listened to horrible Mr. Darcy and his truthful warnings to her from the start.

  The morning meal was little more than a blur. Her father excused himself early, the better to limit his interaction with Mr. Collins. The younger girls chattered incessantly about the ball, so much so that they tried even Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiasm for the topic.

  “Girls, my head. Have you no compassion?” She threw down her flatware and pressed hand to her brow.

  “I am sorry, Mama,” Lydia said with a little pout. The volume of the discussion was lowered for all of half a minute. Elizabeth considered the possibility of putting a morsel of food in her mouth, then decided against it and took a sip of weak tea.

  “Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Collins began, “might I hope for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honor of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?”

  Elizabeth looked up from her teacup in astonishment, but before she could object to such a pronouncement, Mrs. Bennet responded.

  “Oh dear! Yes! Certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no objection.”

  “Mama!” she managed to say.

  “A
s a matter of fact, I believe such an audience might be arranged now. Come Kitty, Lydia, I shall want you upstairs.” Mrs. Bennet pushed away from the table and hastened to leave. The younger girls followed, toast points still clutched in their hands.

  Elizabeth was nearly breathless with surprise. “Dear, ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear.”

  “No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are. Jane, Mary, come with me.”

  “Jane!” Elizabeth turned to her sister. “You shall not leave me. I beg of you!”

  Jane colored and looked from Elizabeth to her mother with a great degree of dismay.

  “Never mind,” she said at once. “I shall go, too. I shall go away myself.” She put aside her napkin and made as if to stand.

  “Lizzy!” her mother shrieked. “I insist upon you staying and hearing Mr. Collins.”

  There was nothing for it. Elizabeth sat in her chair, and the others departed, with Jane the last of them, casting such glances of vexation and regret that in that moment, Elizabeth was not entirely certain if she felt sorrier for her sister or herself.

  No, it needs must be herself, for no sooner did the door shut behind the last of them than Mr. Collins turned to her.

  “Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness. But allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for this address.”

  “Dear sir, I beg you to cease this very instant. I am incapable of hearing anything you might wish to say at this moment.” She could not hear this man’s entreaties on her best of days. She certainly could not hear them this morning.

  He ignored her. “You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble. My attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

  “Mr. Collins!” she pleaded. “Not another word. Good sir—” In another lifetime, she might have laughed at the ridiculousness of this all, but now, she felt faint.

  Mr. Wickham lay before her in the grass, his blood puddling around him.

  Mr. Collins pressed on. She heard not one word in twenty, though she managed to make out his meaning well enough. He sought to marry a Bennet daughter—any Bennet daughter— as a means of healing the breech between their families. He had fixed upon her. He thought she would make a most excellent addition to the whist table at Rosings. He did not blame her overmuch for her lack of fortune and promised not to harp upon it once they were married.

  Married! It was almost a relief to imagine a fresh horror such as that. The thought of being Mrs. Collins was the only thing that had knocked the image of a bleeding Mr. Wickham from her head all day.

  When at last his proposal—such as it was—had run his course, and he paused long enough for Elizabeth to formulate a response, she said, “You are too hasty, sir. You have not given me a chance to make for you an answer. Please, do accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honor of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Collins blinked at her.

  “I am afraid I must decline your offer, sir. I do thank you for the compliment of your preference, though. Good day.” She tried to rise, but he stopped her with a gesture.

  “Can this be?” He shook his head. “No, of course not. It is only the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application.”

  “Indeed, it is nothing of the kind!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I find it quite impossible to accept any offer of yours, no matter how many times you have made it.”

  “I accept only that you wish to increase my desire in refusing me, in the fashion of elegant young ladies. You may trust that your reticence is most charming, cousin.”

  This was not to be borne, no, not even for its qualities of diversion. She could not sit here and listen to such inanity while even now, Mr. Wickham might lay on his deathbed. Elizabeth was certain they would hear news of his fate soon enough.

  But she could not hear this—no, not for another instant. “Do believe me, sir. I have no pretension whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak more plainly? Do not consider me now as an elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart. I cannot accept your offer.”

  And with that, she swept out of her chair and past him to the door, As soon as she opened it, her mother fell in. She’d clearly been listening at the door. Another time, Elizabeth might have found this, too, amusing. But she was beyond all that now.

  “Lizzy!” she shrieked. “Lizzy, what can you be about!”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I must beg your leave. I feel very ill.”

  “Mrs. Bennet,” said Mr. Collins, sternly. She did not envy her mother the conversation to come. But it had been her own rash foolishness which had forced the issue. Mrs. Bennet might have spared them all this humiliation. “I am most disappointed, I must say. Most disappointed indeed.”

  “Elizabeth, stay,” her mother ordered, and turned to Mr. Collins. “Mr. Collins, I am sure this has only been a misunderstanding—”

  “No, indeed, Mama,” Elizabeth insisted. “Unless it is you who are mistook. Mr. Collins has done me the very great honor of soliciting for my hand, but I am afraid I must decline. I am sorry for any disappointments or bruised feelings this event must cause, and hope they will be of short duration.”

  “Be quiet, you ungrateful child!” Her mother snapped.

  “Really, madam,” said Mr. Collins, “if your daughter is indeed so headstrong and foolish, perhaps she would not make me a good wife after all.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth agreed heartily. “Mark him well, Mama. No one here thinks the match would be a good choice.”

  “That is not so, missy,” said Mrs. Bennet. “You shall see. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and he will compel you to see reason.” And then, before Elizabeth could say another world, she went directly to the door of the library and knocked.

  After a moment, Mr. Bennet bid her enter, and, upon her opening the door, he looked up and saw Elizabeth lingering in the hall. His face was drawn and grave.

  “Ah, Lizzy. Come in. I need to speak to you.”

  Mrs. Bennet shook her head, infuriated. “Mr. Bennet, I must speak with you at once on a matter of great importance.”

  The man sighed. “Very well, woman. Make it quick.” He ushered them both into the library. As soon as the door was shut, Mrs. Bennet launched into her speech.

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet, what do you think? We are all in an uproar.”

  “Is that so?” He responded, still looking at Elizabeth in a manner that made her blood run cold.

  “Indeed. You must make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have her.”

  Now the man’s eyebrows raised above the rims of his spectacles. “I beg your pardon. Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Collins has made Lizzy an offer of marriage?”

  “Yes! But Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”

  “Is that so?”

  Mrs. Bennet had grown quite red in the face. “Tell her at once that you insist upon her marrying him!”

  Mr. Bennet was quiet for a long moment. “Mrs. Bennet. Please leave me with my daughter. I must speak to her, alone.”

  Mrs. Bennet loo
ked triumphantly at Elizabeth, gathered up her skirts and swept out of the room.

  Mr. Bennet waited until they were alone. Elizabeth looked at her father, awaiting her fate.

  He sighed. “Mr. Collins has proposed to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you have refused?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded, once. “I suppose that makes sense.” He was silent for a long moment.

  She leaned forward, reaching out her hand. “Papa? You…seem troubled.”

  He took a deep breath. “I am troubled, my dear girl. You see, a message arrived here, early this morning, from Colonel Forster.”

  Her heart seemed to stop within her breast and she struggled to breathe. “Sir…”

  “And I do not know what to make of it.” He gestured beyond the door. “Your mother tells me that this morning you have received an offer of marriage—and I do not know what to make of that, either.”

  “What message, Papa?” Elizabeth asked, desperate. “What was the message, if you please?”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Oh, Lizzy.”

  She could not bear another moment. “Is Mr. Wickham dead?”

  Her father’s countenance might be enough to break her heart. He looked at her as if she had already broken his. And all of a sudden, Elizabeth knew without a doubt that Mr. Bennet had been apprised of all that had come to past at the Netherfield ball.

  “So, it is true?”

  “What is?” she asked. “Please sir, has Mr. Wickham succumbed to his injuries?”

  “No,” her father replied gravely. “Not yet.”

  Elizabeth bit back a gasp, but her father noticed, nonetheless.

  “I am more worried about you.”

  “About me?”

  “This story may spread very fast through Meryton.”

  She bowed her head. So all of Mr. Darcy’s precautions had been for nothing. There was a rumor she had been present after all. “I did fear that. I should not have been there last night.”

  “No, you should not.” He shook his head gravely. “But the fact remains. A duel was fought last night at the Netherfield Ball. A duel over your honor.”